


Pyaar Dosti Hai

by Who_Needs_Reality



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Alternate Universe- Kuch Kuch Hota Hai Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Basically both Bellamy and Clarke have a lot of parental-ish interaction with small children, Camp Counsellor Bellamy, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Single Parent Clarke, Slow Burn, and there's a tag i never thought i'd use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-08-22 23:12:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8304910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Who_Needs_Reality/pseuds/Who_Needs_Reality
Summary: Bellamy fell in love with his best friend, Clarke, and she fell in love with Wells. Life happened, they grew up and they grew apart.Years later, Clarke's daughter learns about Bellamy and Clarke, that once-inseparable, almost legendary duo, learns what was and what wasn't, what could have been and what could be, in a letter from her late father. Amy knows her mother is lonely, and she thinks this Bellamy guy is the possible solution.Now, she wants to bring them together at last. The only problem? They're strangers now, and Amy's going to have a lot of work to do.
  (Yes, this is literally the Bollywood movie Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, but featuring Bellarke. No, you don't need to watch it to read this fic).





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bookwormswillruletheword](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormswillruletheword/gifts).



> Here I am, fulfilling the Bollywood Bellarke niche I didn't know existed. If you are familiar with Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, this is pretty much that but Bellarke-ified. If you are not, three things:
> 
> 1) You absolutely don't need to have seen it to read this fic. Just know it's a very cheesy 90's musical romcom drama that most Desi kids were raised on.  
> 2) If you would like to watch it, it is available on Netflix, knock yourselves out.  
> 3) The title is an iconic line from the film, and it means "Love is Friendship."
> 
> Shoutout to Wind for encouraging this and making me the Bollywood-ising monster I was never supposed to be.
> 
> Finally, this chapter is a prologue and more of a framing chapter than anything else, so please excuse the lack of Bellarke. There will be plenty of it next chapter, I swear.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Eight, is an important year; you’re so big now, practically a grown-up! And because you’re a grown-up, I want to tell you a story. It’s a very special story, about lots of things. It’s about your mother and about me and about Bellamy."

**Present Day**

_Ten._

_Nine._

_Eight._

_Seven._

_Six._

_Five._

_Four._

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

 

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” 

Amy was screaming it to herself, but she didn’t care, because she was eight-- _eight_ \-- and that deserved celebrating, it deserved the shouting-from-the-rooftops kind of happy that, at this point in time, only _she_ was awake to deliver. She didn’t mind being up alone, before her mum and grandma even considered surfacing. It felt special: her room glowed blue in the pre-dawn light, and the sounds of the first birdsong of the morning filtered through her windows. She was eight, and for the moment, that was enough.

The moment lasted all of five minutes, before Amy decided it was time for something more exciting. And to Amy, exciting meant one thing.

“ _Gooood_ Morning Boston, this is _Reyes and Shine_ , and I’m your host, Raven Reyes! On today’s show we’re interviewing some friendly passers-by about this week’s theme: happiness!”

Amy shifted excitedly where she was sitting. _Reyes and Shine_ was her favourite show. She loved watching Raven, loved feeling bright and grown-up and energetic. 

“Sir!” said Raven onscreen, holding a mic to a random passerby, “what’s the last thing that made you happy?”

“Uh, I had a really great takeout last night?”

“Awesome!” said Raven, turning back to the camera.

 

“Hey, birthday girl!”

“Mom!” Amy leapt to her feet, scrambling to hug her mother who had just walked in.

“Happy Birthday baby,” her mother said, nestling Amy into her stomach.

“Not a baby anymore,” she mumbled, but smiled anyway.

“That’s right,” she laughed, “you’re all grown up now. Does this mean you’re too old for birthday breakfast?”

Amy pulled back sharply, eyes wide in alarm, shaking her head so hard her frizzy black curls bounced. “No!”

Her mother ruffled her hair, grinning. “Well, if you’re sure--”

“I _am_!”

“Go wake Grandma, she’ll want to wish you before school.”

Amy nodded and scampered to her Grandma’s room. Grandma Abby was already awake, and she beamed when her granddaughter appeared.

“Happy Birthday sweetie!” she said, “you’re up early!”

“Well, _yeah,_ grandma, it’s my _birthday_!”

Abby Griffin laughed, shaking her head fondly. “Is it time for breakfast?”

“Yes!” said the eight-year-old, “leggo!”

Birthday breakfast this year was waffles, as many as she wanted, with whipped cream and strawberries and chocolate sauce decorating them to look like a face. Her mum had tied a big foil balloon shaped like a fat number 8 to the back of her chair, and Grandma Abby let her have a small cup of coffee.

“I’ve got to run to work now,” her mum said, pulling her blonde hair back in a bun, “I’ll be home by six.”  
“For presents!” Amy yelled, bouncing. Presents, after all, were the most important part of the day.

“For presents,” her mother confirmed, bending to peck her on the forehead. “Bye love, have an awesome day!” She stood. “Bye mum!”

“Bye Clarke,” said Abby, and then, turning to Amy, “come on missy, let’s get you ready for school.”

 

***

The envelope burned in Abigail Griffin’s pocket the whole day. She felt its corners poke her in the pocket of her trousers as she drove to-and-from Amy’s school, felt it every time she shifted. She felt the weight of the envelopes every year, of course, but this one, well...

Abby knew Wells had been a smart boy. He was thoughtful and cautious, and he always had his reasons for doing what he did. And besides, the condition the poor man had been in the last few days... well Abby hadn’t expected him to write _reams_ or anything, he couldn’t have written all the way into Amy’s adulthood of course. But eight? There was no particular significance to eight that Abby could surmise, no good reason she could think of that he’d stopped at eight letters. The first four years, Amy couldn’t even read his letters to herself, and they were less words and more silly sketched and doodles from Wells. Even so, the little girl had worn them petal-thin with folding and unfolding, sapping every last memory of her father that she could from the pages. And now, Abby held the last one. It would, she knew, break her heart to hand it to her granddaughter, knowing there were no more to come, that this would be it.

Break her heart not just for Amy’s sake, but for Clarke’s. Amy would be sad, of course, but she was young, she would learn to grow past it. Clarke... well she knew her daughter. Clarke wouldn’t say anything, but Abby wasn’t looking forward to knowing that eight years later, her daughter really would lose _all_ of Wells forever. 

Abby’s lips pursed as she slid the envelope underneath the pile of gaudily wrapped presents. She was sure Wells Jaha had had his reasons for stopping at eight letters. She just wished she knew _why_ he was leaving them like this now.

 

***

If you asked Clarke to describe herself in one word, she’d tut at you and moved on with her day, and if you asked her again, she’d huff in annoyance and try send you off with a terse smile, and then, if you managed to really push her, she might say, “efficient.” Efficient. It sounded clinical, but she didn’t really mind. It was appropriate, her being a surgeon and all. Efficient. She always checked the weather the night before to lay out her outfits for the next day, she always checked the traffic for whichever route she was going to drive through, even if it was just a quick grocery run. She always bought Christmas and Birthday presents a day in advance, she had a biannual designated “spring cleaning” week with an actual time table laid out to schedule chores, and she colour coded her box files, of which there were many. Efficient, that is, in all things except one: Amy. It wasn’t exactly that Clarke was _in_ efficient regarding her daughter, it was that she was... more _exuberantly_ efficient. She knew, grimly, that she was the very kind of parent she dreaded encountering in the pediatrics ward: paranoid, obsessive, and omnipresent. She was, she sometimes pondered on the rare occasions she allowed her mind to wander that far back, the exact person she had so often teased _him_ about being, she was certainly overprotective enough...

Anyways, Clarke was well aware that the rational thought and level-headedness she so carefully cultivated for the hospital and every other walk of life went quickly out the window wherever Amy was concerned, and Amy’s birthday, well...look Clarke loved it. Of course she did. No mother on Earth could possibly _dislike_ a day on which her daughter spent the whole day beaming her gap-toothed beam, proclaiming herself the Birthday Princess and saying “Mum I’m so _old_!” from her chair, feet swinging off the ground. The problem was, Amy’s birthday made it very hard for Clarke to stay efficient. And that scared her. Losing the precious tranquility she had built up, the exquisite balance of keeping each moment of time meticulously structured felt dangerous, because Amy’s birthday was a milestone, and milestones inevitably invoked memories, and memories, well. Memories, Clarke knew, were best left untouched. 

 

“Coffee?” 

She glanced up, and saw Monroe waving a plastic cup in her direction. “Thanks,” She took a long sip, thankful for the focus that the hot bitter taste brought, “I needed that!”

Monroe laughed. “Don’t we all?” The scrub nurse glanced at her clipboard. “Stirling’s covering your last shift?”

“Hmm. I’ve got to get back home early. Amy’s birthday.”

“Ah, right! How old is she, seven?”

“Eight. Jesus, I feel old.”

“Oh stop,” Monroe nudged her, “we’re the same age, if you feel old, then I have to feel old.”  
“My apologies.”

“So, any big plans for the birthday girl?”

Clarke grinned. “Presents, Skype with grandpa, pizza, the usual.” Amy’s party had been last week, (theme: space pirates) so it was a family celebration tonight.

Monroe sighed. “Man your kid has the partying thing down. That pretty much sounds like _my_ ideal night.”

Clarke smiled at that, but didn’t say anything else.

 

***

Amy was already on a sugar high by the time Clarke got home, bouncing up-and-down on the sofa and telling Abby excitedly about how her class had signed a card for her and even Mrs Singh had drawn a smiley face in it, which was special, because she usually just scribbled her name in the cards.

“Hi sweetie!” Clarke called as she came in, tugging the door shut behind her.

“Mum!” Amy yelled, almost falling off the couch in her haste to greet Clarke, “guess what! Everyone sang to me after lunch today, and it was _super_ embarrassing, and then Lia gave me her Twix! And I drew me as a princess in space.”

“That sounds awesome,” Clarke said, grinning as she stooped to hug her, did you speak to grandpa?”

Amy nodded fervently, her curls dancing. “He said....” her brow furrowed as she tried to remember.... “he said my chakras are lining up.”

Clarke bit back an exasperated groan. Thelonious had a new, usually culturally appropriative fad each month. Last month, it had been Feng Shui. The month before, it was Yoga. She doubted he knew how chakras worked, but oh well. It wasn’t as bad as the year he’d tried to get Amy to wear a bindi as a Viking headdress to her athletics tournament, so. Baby steps.  
“You want to go grab the takeout menu for the pizza?” Clarke said, scruffling Amy’s hair, and her daughter bounced off.

 

“How was work?” Abby asked.

“Fine, a slow day today.” Clarke unwound her bun and ran her fingers through her hair. 

“I spoke to Eleanor today,” she said, carefully casual.

“Oh?”

“Her daughter’s in town. You remember Niylah?”

Clarke’s jaw clenched. “Yeah.”

“You should get in touch with her,” Abby said, “maybe meet up--”

“Mum,” she cut her off, terse, “no.”

“Clarke--”

“I don’t need to be set up, Mum, I’m fine.”

Abby cupped her daughter’s cheek a moment. “I know you don’t need to, sweetie but...” she sighed, “you just seem so lonely.”

Clarke hunched her shoulders. “I’m not. I have you and I have Amy, I have my family.”

Abby looked at her with sad eyes. “And you’ll always have us baby, but don’t you think something’s missing after....after Wells?”

“ _Wells_ is missing after Wells,” she answered flatly.

“Clarke--”

“No, Mum! You didn’t marry again after Dad, Thelonious didn’t after Adelaide, and I’m not going to now. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing, okay? We fall in love once and we make of it what we can, I’m not interested in messing with that.”

 

***

Amy enjoyed all the parts of her birthday. Really, she did. But the presents meant the letter, and for Amy, the letter was the whole _point_ of the birthday. Grandma and Mum carried out a cake covered with eight candles and a sparkler, and sang to her, and Amy blew them all out and made a wish. She couldn’t say what it was of course, but it was the same wish she made every year. Then she turned her attention to the pile of presents, wrapped in pink and gold paper. 

There was a necklace with a pendant shaped like a fairy, an Iron Man action figure, a box with 100 different coloured crayons from Granddad, a make-your-own-volcano kit, a Littlest Pet Shop playset, and a plastic watch decorated with little planets. 

“Thank you thank you thank you!” she said, jumping on her mother and grandmother to hug them, and giggling when her mum made desperate efforts to save the wrapping paper. And then there it was, right a the bottom of the pile-- a white envelope with a red-and-blue border, the kind people used to post letters on airplanes in, with a neat “8” drawn on in it in her father’s handwriting, surrounded by little doodles of balloons and candles and animals in party hats. 

 

She didn’t open the letter until after she’d been tucked in and wished goodnight-- Mum and Grandma always let her read the letters in private. She opened the envelope carefully, not wanting to tear any of the drawings, and shook it upside down. The letter was a long one, several sheets of paper folded together, and Amy was opening them out eagerly when something slipped out from between them, onto her blanket. She picked it up to examine. It was a photograph, one of the old-fashioned kinds that pops straight from the camera and turns from black into a photo gradually. It was slightly faded, but she could see three people, a little older than teenagers but much younger than _proper_ adults, sitting on a field. She recognized her mother instantly, looking younger with her blonde hair in a ponytail and wearing a very 90’s jacket, and she could see her mother had one around her father. Amy of course only knew him from photos, but this was definitely him, skin slightly darker than her own, with a nice smile. It was the other boy she didn’t recognise. Her mother’s other arm was around his waist and he was leaning in a bit, grinning. She frowned carefully, trying to see if it was an uncle or someone she might know, but no: the boy with the curly black hair was a stranger. Amy placed the picture carefully on her nightstand, and turned eagerly to the letter.

 _Dear Bellamy_ , 

it began. Her Dad always used her full name in the letters. It made her a little sad that he would never know that you were only supposed to use that when you were angry, that everyone called her Amy, but she kept reading.

_Dear Bellamy,_

_Happy Birthday sweetheart! As always, I wish I could be with you so much, and I’m so sorry I’ve missed it. Still, I know Mum and Grandma will make it extra special. Speaking of your Mum, let me guess-- does she still fall asleep with her paintbrushes stuck through her bun on weekends? And then wake up and complain she can’t find them?_

She giggled. Mum did this all the time.

_Eight, is an important year; you’re so big now, practically a grown-up! And because you’re a grown-up, I want to tell you a story. It’s a very special story, about lots of things. It’s about your mother and about me and about Bellamy._

Had she misread it? No, it definitely said “Bellamy.” That was odd.

 _I know no one will have told you all this yet, but you’re old enough to hear it now, and when you’ve heard it, I’m going to ask you to do something for me. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Get comfy love, because we have to go waaaaaaaaaay back to start this story (your Mum’s even older than_ you _are!) So, Bellamy-- are you ready to start?_

Amy shuffled back against the pillows and drew a determined breath. Then she began to read.


	2. A Single Friend My World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So you’re being roped into this because of your social ineptitude,” Clarke clarified, raking a hand absently through his curls.
> 
> “Pretty much.” Bellamy had his head in her lap, eyes closed.
> 
> “Wow,” she snorted, “you’re the bespoke welcome pack.”
> 
> “I don’t know why he needs a guide anyway,” Bellamy complained, “he’s a rich senior transferring from one top ten school to another, where his dad’s the Dean, I don’t think he’ll be stuffed in lockers or anything.”  
> Clarke made a murmured noise of assent, but said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read and reviewed the first chapter guys, I hope you all stick around! Okay, a couple of clarifying things here:
> 
> 1) The following few chapters are flashbacks, set around 10 years ago. This is because it's a lot more fun to read about the events first hand than it is to read about them all through Wells's letter. Also, it's more fun for me to write. I will indicate when we switch back to present day, but again, that's not for a few chapters.
> 
> 2) Assume that Wells's letter is providing Amy with some rudimentary backstory and detailed accounts of all the events he was actually present for. Basically, by the time you finish reading the flashbacks, Amy will have roughly the same amount of information as you do.
> 
> 3) Clarke becomes a surgeon (in this chapter she is doing undergrad pre-med) and I realised I never actually worked out how long it would take for her to become one and how other milestones, e.g., having a baby, could plausibly fit in where. As such, I'm just going to ask you to go with some willing suspension of disbelief and not fact check my timelines.
> 
> I hope I haven't confused you all too much now. Also, pretty much assume I will never again update this quickly. And now, onwards.

**_10 Years Ago_ **

“You _asshole_!” Clarke cried, attempting to grab the ball from him as he held it aloft, just out of her reach, “give it!”

Bellamy grinned at her, cocky and infuriating. “That kind of defeats the purpose of the game, Clarke. But I appreciate that being vertically challenged might make this a struggle for you...”

“Fuck off, you’re not _that_ tall.”

“Okay, ankle-biter, whatever you say.”

Clarke made as though to turn away, but then at the last second _leapt_ at him. Bellamy gave a strangled yell, and the next thing he knew, Clarke Griffin was hanging off his back like a koala, arms flailing for the ball. She wrestled it from him eventually, and made no qualms about basically tackling him to the ground, spring-boarding off him, and dunking the ball through the net.

“YES! I won I won I won!” she chanted, circling him in a frenzied sort of victory dance.

Bellamy pushed himself up, scowling. “You cheated.”

Clarke froze. “I did _not_!”

“Did too.”

“What are we, eight?” 

“Well, you play like an eight-year-old.”

“Your face is an eight-year-old.”

“That doesn’t even make sense!”

“Your mom doesn’t make sense.”

“Cheater, cheater, Clarke is a ch-- _hey_!”

Clarke had chucked the basketball at his head, and Bellamy barely dodged it. “Wow,” he said, lobbing the ball right back, “immature, violent, _and_ a cheater.”  
“Shut up,” she snorted, without heat, “you’re just a sore loser.”

“Only when my loss is _unjust_.”

Their bickering carried them all the way from the gym to the coffee shop, where the other regular customers had long since learnt to tune the duo out. “Healthy” competition had always been central to Bellamy and Clarke’s friendship, and they could trash-talk each other about _everything_ : basketball, Nintendo, Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit, running, racing each other up the climbing wall, raising money for the college fundraisers... to an outsider at first glance, they might have seemed more like nemeses than friends. But then again, Bellamy and Clarke weren’t the outsiders.

“Anyway,” Bellamy was saying, “I could hand your ass to you on one of those ridiculous silver dishes your parents use at dinner parties anytime, if you would just play fair.”

“And yet here I stand,” she returned, “victorious.” She shoved his arm and he grinned

***

“Mr Blake! A word.”

Bellamy turned round with gritted teeth, recognising Dean Jaha’s voice. “Hey Mr. Jaha, what’s up?”

“You know I consider you one of my most upstanding students.”

Bellamy swallowed a scathing retort. His grades were good and his professors liked him, but he was hardly a paragon of social virtue; he had no idea where Jaha could possibly be going with this. “Um. Thank you, sir.”

“Yes, yes. Now, in light of that, I have a request for you.”

 _There it is_. “What’s that Mr. Jaha?”

The Dean, much to Bellamy’s horror, actually _rubbed his hands_ with glee. “Tomorrow, Arkadia University will be welcoming a new transfer student.”

Bellamy frowned. Transfer students weren’t unusual in-and-of themselves, but they usually came 

in as sophomores, and certainly not days after the semester began.

“You see, my son Wells will be transferring here from Polis College. He’s pre-law there, you know, but I was telling him how fine our program is here, and in any case, he oughtn’t be so far away, not now his mother’s gone, and it would make so much more sense for him to come here.”

“Oh. Well, you must be happy sir.”

“Indeed, indeed. But I broached the subject with you, young man, because I’d like you to keep an eye out for him.”

Bellamy blinked. “For Wells? Me?”

Jaha nodded, oblivious to Bellamy’s confusion. “Yes, just show him round, introduce him to people, make sure he settles in alright. Would you do that for me?”

“Um. Well, yes, of course, but...can I ask why me?” he blurted out. It was a fair question. Bellamy wasn’t exactly known for being friendly or approachable, and he really shouldn’t have been anyone’s first choice for a welcoming committee. Maybe Jaha just covertly disliked his son enough to inflict Bellamy upon him, who knew?

Jaha, for a moment, looked relatively sombre. “My son is...a little reserved. I’m not sure the usual extravagant welcome would suit him. I believe your temperament might suit his better.” And then the Dean left, as though he’d said the most natural thing in the world.

***

“So you’re being roped into this _because_ of your social ineptitude,” Clarke clarified, raking a hand absently through his curls.

“Pretty much.” Bellamy had his head in her lap, eyes closed.

“Wow,” she snorted, “you’re the bespoke welcome pack.”

“I don’t know why he _needs_ a guide anyway,” Bellamy complained, “he’s a rich senior transferring from one top ten school to another, where his dad’s the Dean, I don’t think he’ll be stuffed in lockers or anything.”

Clarke made a murmured noise of assent, but said nothing.

Bellamy opened one eye. “Hey, what’s up?”

“The sky,” she retorted as if on reflex.

He sat up, rolling his eyes, nudging her.

She sighed. “Nothing, it’s just...” her hand leaves his hair, and Bellamy resists the urge to tug it back, “he sounds like a standard rich asshole. And he’s going to remind you how much you hate standard rich assholes. And...”

Bellamy sighed. He’d met Clarke back in high school, and their initial interactions had been...unpleasant. Long story short, he’d assumed she was an entitled snob, she’d assumed he was an arrogant narcissist, and they’d treated each other as such for weeks. Eventually, Bellamy realised that Clarke was smart, dedicated, and fearless and stopped calling her princess; she realised he was loyal, self-sacrificing and a massive nerd, and started calling him one. But he was well beyond assuming Clarke was merely a product of her upbringing now, and he hoped she knew that.

“Hey,” he smiled, “I promise I’m not going to magically turn on you because the Dean’s son prances round being a dick.”  
She snorted half-heartedly. And then, in a smaller voice she added. “ _I’m_ a standard rich asshole.”

Bellamy slung an arm around her, pulling her in for something between a hug and a headlock. “You’re _Clarke_.”

***

Wells Jaha’s first thought on stepping into the Arkadia University campus was _oh shit am I overdressed_. At Polis, the khaki-slacks-and-polo-shirt combo would have been perfectly innocuous, but this place had a definite shorts-and-flip-flops vibe going. He stuck out like an ostentatious grandma teapot amidst a shelf of shot glasses, but Wells had also learnt that walking with confidence and self-possession could get you a long way. 

As he made his way smartly to the admissions office, he thanked his lucky stars he’d decided to come straight to school. He loved his Dad, missed him, but...he was a lot. Wells was well aware of the raised eyebrows and murmurs “Dean’s son” could attract, and his Dad wasn’t anything like discreet about their connection.

“Uh...Wells Jaha?”

Case-in-point. The unknown curly-haired guy leaning on the doorframe of the admissions building clearly knew him already. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see his father post an ad about his return in the local paper

“The one and only,” he extended a hand and the boy shook, “pleasure to meet you.”

“Bellamy Blake,” he said, “likewise.”

They stood in awkward silence a moment, Wells drumming his fingers lightly on his leg, Bellamy twisting his cracked brown leather watch about his wrist, before Bellamy spoke again. “Look, I’m not a naturally...approachable person.”

Wells smirked in spite of himself. “I see.”

“But...okay full transparency, your Dad asked me to look out for you, even though I’m not a student ambassador and I hate socializing, but because your Dad’s the Dean, of course I said yes.” He raked a hand through his hair. “What I’m getting at is, I’m not good at all.... this, but I’m going to show you around, and if you have questions or need anything, you can ask me, and I will actually try to help you, which is more than I do for most people.”

The sincerity in the boy’s tone suggested to Wells that he made at _least_ much effort for everybody, but he just laughed and said “great, thank you.”

The tour, Wells suspected, wasn’t actually what his Father would have wanted, but it was infinitely more useful. Bellamy’s version included tips such as “stay the fuck away from there if you don’t want Professor Wallace accosting you after classes offering to let you do _something special_ for extra credit” and “that may _look_ like a good hook-up spot, but the acoustics will not work in your favour.” Wells was surprised to find himself almost regretful when the tour concluded and Bellamy said: “So, I’ve gotta go to class now, I’ll walk you back to the admissions building,” he liked the guy.

Bellamy nodded a goodbye and promised to look out for him around lunch, before jogging off. Wells surveyed the campus another second. His new home. There was no overwhelming surge of emotion, good or bad, and instead of trying to muster one up, he turned away to go get ready to start.

***

Clarke glanced up as soon as Bellamy strode in, loping up the stairs of the lecture theatre to get to his regular seat next to hers. By all rights, a classics and a pre-med major shouldn’t have had any senior year classes together, but they’d both signed up for the World Lit elective more out of stubbornness than anything else. It was a crippling addition to Clarke’s already hellish schedule, but it was also an extra ninety minutes access to Bellamy, so she figured it evened out.

“So,” she asked him in a low voice, leaning towards him as he sat down, “how was the return of the prodigal?”

Bellamy shrugged. “Not too bad, honestly. I mean he could still be a prick, he might be a time bomb that way. But at no point did he say anything like _my Daddy runs this place_ or anything. Quiet, mostly.”

“He might be one of those guys that seems really normal but then you find out he gets his money from running a sweatshop full of baby monkeys or something.”

Bellamy quirked an eyebrow. “Are you speaking from experience here?”

“Let’s just say rich people dinner parties can provide information you never wanted to know.”

He snorted. “I’ll take your word for it. But in any case, I’m pretty sure Wells’s money comes from Jaha.”

“What, and Jaha _doesn’t_ seem like he could own an animal-run sweatshop?”

***

She wouldn’t have said she was nervous. Antsy, maybe. Jaha’s kid might turn out to be fine, and she wouldn’t have to worry, but then again, he might not be. Clarke wasn’t actually worried that Bellamy’s “rich people suck” biases would resurface against her, though talking to him had helped calm her down a bit, but she was worried that _her_ aversion to them might spring up. Look, she got that it was ironic. She was the definition of a rich kid, nice car, fancy school and all. She really had no reason to complain about rich people that didn’t make her sound like a pretentious first world asshole, but she couldn’t deny the fact that she’d run from her life for a reason. Yes, okay, she’d run to one of the top ten private schools in the country, but she had run _away_ from Harvard, much to her mother’s chagrin, and away from a lifetime of benefits and balls, class politics and roomfuls of people smiling tightly at people they hated even as they offered thinly veiled backhand compliments over flutes of champagne. She’d run away from a life of : “Clarke? Ah, yes, Jake and Abby’s girl! So sorry about your father, such a shame,” a lifetime of, “so, you have your eye on any lucky young man yet? Bet you can’t wait to have a big beautiful wedding! You should have seen your parents’s....” Again, Clarke knew she hadn’t had it bad by any stretch of the imagination. Just about everyone had led a harder life than she had. Fuck, even her best friend was here on scholarship and had worked three jobs through high school to support his family. She also knew that she didn’t want anyone who belonged in her old world catching up with her, and if Wells Jaha was one of those people, she wanted nothing to do with him.

It was with this steely resolve that she turned the corner to where Bellamy was waiting. He was leaning against the wall, tossing what appeared to be a bouncy ball from hand-to-hand, and the new guy was with him. Bellamy’s face did that thing it did when he saw her, lighting up despite his best efforts at a “cool half-smirk.” She jogged over to the boys.

“Clarke, Wells Jaha. Wells, Clarke Griffin.” Bellamy waved his hand vaguely between them, which she figured was the best he was going to be able to do by way of an introduction.

Wells made as though to extend his hand, but she cut him off with “So you’re Jaha’s kid right?”

Bellamy quirked an eyebrow at her from behind Wells, who just said: “I take it you don’t know too many Jahas then.”

Clarke shrugged. “So what made you decide to transfer in senior year? From Polis?”

Wells, to his credit, still appeared impassive. “My father makes a compelling argument.”

“Did you even have to apply? Or did Jaha just wave a magic wand?”

Bellamy’s eyes disappeared into his hair. This was pretty much as hostile as he’d been to _her_ the first time they’d met, and given Clarke was, well, _rich_ , it seemed a bit extreme.

“Maybe you can use Abigail Griffin’s magic wand to find out.”

Bellamy and Clarke both stared at him.

Wells shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. “What? There aren’t that many Griffins either.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m going to go now.”

 

As soon as he turned, Bellamy was beside her. “So, are we the Sharks or the Jets in this scenario?”

“Oh shut up.”

“No really, did you switch to a Drama major? Was that supposed to be a character study of _me_? Or is this your hostile takeover of my position as asshole-in-chief?”

Clarke shoved him in the chest.

“You have to admit,” he said after a moment, “he had you at the end there.”

She hummed in response. And then, before she could change her mind: “Hey, Jaha!”  
Wells turned in the corridor, glancing at her over his shoulder.  
“See you round!”

He shot back a half-smile, and made a weird swirling gesture with his hand before turning away.

Clarke furrowed her brow. “What the hell was that?” She imitated the gesture.

Bellamy squinted, before giving a snort.  
“What?”

“I think it was a _swish-and-flick_.” He ruffled her hair as and she elbowed him in the side. “I think he was waving a magic wand Clarke.”

She ducked her head, though she was pretty sure Bellamy had already caught her smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Comments and kudos are my life's blood. Hang with me on [tumblr](http://kingedmundactually.tumblr.com).


	3. Something Other Than Oneself is Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Love...” Clarke pronounced the word as though she were tasting some strange new flavour, and Bellamy could practically hear the furrow of her brow as she concentrated. “Love is....friendship. Love is friendship.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so so sorry it took so long to update, I've been sinking into the quagmire of real life. 0/10 Recommendation. In other news, throwback to when I just used fanfic as an escape from canon as and not from the hellish reality of the leadership of the Free World. But yeah, more iconic KKHH moments surface in this chapter, so I hope I do them justice!

Miller and Bellamy’s shared silences had become companionable out of necessity rather than any initial surge of affection, and that suited them both fine. They jogged around the perimeter of the field in time, communicating sparsely, and even then only in vague grunts and huffs. 

“Okay, bring it in guys,” Bellamy called when the timer on his watch beeped. The team made their way to the center of the field, and Bellamy began leading stretches. As a captain, he tried to be fairly relaxed about how he managed the team, motivating without being overbearing. _Tried_ being the operative. He was, as Clarke surmised, a perpetual older brother, and Octavia’s absence only meant that his fraternal instincts simply expanded to pretty much anyone around him. Most of the time, he suspected people found it endearing, though there were a fair few instances where it earned him looks that said: “I want to rip your balls off.”

“The first game is in a week, and I want us all in shipshape condition--” he paused to glare at Miller, who appeared to be choking back a smirk at his use of “shipshape” before continuing-- “before then. This season is ours for the taking, and we’re going to grab it--”

“By the fucking ballsack!” interjected Murphy, sounding half sarcastic as usual.  
“Shut up Murphy. We’re going to grab it, and I know we can. We’re the strongest team in years, and _we_ get to control our outcome. You’re a warrior, every freaking one of you, and this is our battlefield, so let’s get ready to _fight_.”

He was met with a roar of approval, and Miller cut in with “HANDS IN! One. Two. Three. _Delinquents_!” The team’s hands flew upwards as they all cried out, and training began. Miller and Bellamy split the team up into two halves and started some dribbling and passing exercises.

He called for a break about an hour into practice.

“Aye aye, Captain.”

Bellamy looked up and grinned when he saw her, his heart doing that flip-flop thing it had been doing every time he saw her since they got back to school. He guessed it was an “absence makes the heart go fonder” type of thing. Residual missing her over summer and all that.  
“Mom’s here!” Jasper the water boy yelled, “Dad’s finally smiling!”

Clarke quirked an eyebrow.

“Ignore him,” Bellamy huffed.

She shook her head, grinning as she picked her way down the bleachers to sit on the lowest one by him. “I come bearing gifts.”

The energy drink she tossed him was cold, condensation sweating down the edges. “Thanks,” he said, but she didn’t miss the wrinkle of his freckled nose. 

“Drink up,” she said, arms folded across her chest.

“ _Claaaaarke_ ,” he whined.

“You need to stay hydrated.”

“I can drink normal water-- this shit tastes like liquid chalk.”

“It’s the electrolytes, Bellamy. You need electrolytes. And how the fuck would you know what liquid chalk tastes like?”

“I grew up with Octavia.”

“That answers nothing. In fact, it raises more questions. But stop digressing. _Drink_.”

He scowled, but took a swig anyway, biting back a grin as Clarke started chanting “chug! chug! chug! chug!” He would have drunken it eventually, he knows, because they’ve had the exact same argument every day of soccer practice since Freshman year.  Also, he seemed to be physically incapable of saying “no” to Clarke, but again, that was a separate issue. 

“So," she said when she was satisfied that he had ingested enough energy drink to stave off immediate fainting, “how’s the team looking?”

He regarded the boys sprawled across the soccer pitch, wrinkling his nose. “They’ve got all the potential,” he mused, “they just need...”

“Someone to raise them right?” she nudged him, smirking. 

He scowled but said nothing because, well.

She reached up to ruffle his curls, playful. “Don’t kill yourself over them, yeah?”  
  
“Why would I--”  
  
“You’re like an over-invested soccer mom. Literally. Soccer--” she waved her hand at the pitch ahead-- “mom.” She wrapped her arms around him like a cage, and he huffed hard enough to blow her hair. His heart was doing stupid things again.

***

The library was sacred space. No one was supposed to talk to you in the library, you weren’t supposed to talk in the library. Clarke got that rule, heck, she _worshipped_ that rule. It had aided and abetted her misanthropic study needs for years. It was a golden rule. Which is why it made no sense that when she glanced up from her Anatomy notes to see Wells Jaha drifting through the nearest shelves, she waved him over. He cocked his head curiously when he saw her. She quirked an eyebrow and nodded at the seat beside her (and Clarke would normally rather perform an express castration on someone than let them sit next to her when she was in the study “zone”). He considered for a moment before a smile appeared on his face. He smiled nicely, she thought. It didn’t light up his whole face like Bellamy did, but that was an unfair comparison because Bellamy’s smile was her favourite. It was a nice smile though. Soft, warm, like it spread out from within him.

She was a little dazed by the time he slipped into the chair beside her, and she shook her head as though to clear it. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice muted.

“What’re you studying for?”  
  
He shrugged. “Nothing. I’m trying to pick up my books for World Lit tomorrow since I didn’t have time to order them yet.”

She blinked. “World Lit?”

“Uh...yeah?”

She broke into a smile of her own. “I’m in that class.”  
  
“Oh. That’s great!” and he sounded genuinely delighted. “Do you have any idea what we’re reading?”

“We haven’t started anything yet, it’s just been syllabus and admin-y stuff for the first couple of days. I can give you the booklist though.” She rifled through her bag before finding the folded up sheet and handing it to him.

He smoothed it out and scanned it. “Thanks,” he said, smiling again. He made no move to get up though, and Clarke found she didn’t mind. Wells glanced over at her textbook. “Anatomy, huh?”

She snorted, lifting the book to confirm it. “Pre-med life.”

They made small talk like that for a while, and Clarke found she liked it. They didn’t discuss anything _important_ per se, they just....talked. And it was nice. 

She didn’t notice that Wells had stayed with her the whole hour until he coughed lightly and pointed at the doorway to the library where Bellamy was standing expectantly. 

“Oh, thanks,” she muttered hurriedly, stuffing her things haphazardly together into her bag and standing. When Wells made no move to follow, she looked at him. “Coming?”  
  
“Oh! Um, yeah.” He stood up, a tad uncertain, and it was so adorably helpless coming from him that she had to tug at his elbow and lead him behind her.

Bellamy’s eyes flickered to Wells, and he greeted him with a “hey, how’s it going?”

“How was practice?” Clarke asked when they got out of the library, walking three-in-a-row, her in the middle.   
  
“You saw it,” he shot back.  
  
“I saw the _break_.”  
  
“Whatever. Did you eat?” 

Clarke muttered something, and Bellamy sighed like a long-suffering babysitter, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a sandwich in a Tupperware box. “You’re the best!” she cried when she saw it was peanut butter.  
  
Bellamy grunted but she could tell it was one of his pleased grunts. “One day,” he said, addressing Wells, “she’ll learn to feed herself. Until then, it’s my cross to bear.”  
  
“Hey!” her voice was muffled by the half-chewed sandwich in her mouth, “you’d be collapsed and dehydrated on a field if I didn’t do everything short of injecting fluids into your bloodstream via IV.”  
  
“I drink _water_ , just not your weird electric crap.”  
  
“Electro _lytes_ Bellamy, stop making it sound like I’m trying to experiment on you.” She turned to Wells, wide-eyed with exaggerated innocence. “I would never!”

Clarke waved the boys off as she headed into Anatomy, and Bellamy and Wells went towards the Social Science building.

“So,” Bellamy asked, trying to do his civic duty, “how’s the first week been?”  
  
Wells grinned, wryly amused at how obviously unnatural this kind of exchange was for Bellamy. “Not too bad. My Dad’s on my case, though, he wants me to move into his house. It makes more sense than student housing I guess, but...”

“Yeah, I get it.” And he did. He himself would probably have cohabited with Satan himself had it meant no rent, but intellectually, sure, he got the aversion to living with your Dad in the last year of college. “Make any new friends?” Bellamy quipped, definitely teasing now.

Wells laughed. “People are pretty cool.”

They walked in companionable silence for a few moments before Wells ruined Bellamy’s life. Or at least, _triggered_ the ruin of Bellamy’s life. “How long have you guys been together?” he asked, casual.

“Huh?”  
  
“You and Clarke? You seem really comfortable together, it’s nice.”

Bellamy almost choked on his own saliva. “What? Cl...me and...me and Clarke?”

Wells’s eyes widened, mortified. “Shit, sorry, I thought you guys were...”

“No, no it’s fine. But uh. Yeah. Clarke and I aren’t....we’re not _dating_.”

“Sorry,” Wells said again, slowly. “Just friends, got it.”  
  
“Not _just_ ** _,”_** Bellamy blurted before he could stop himself. It was a completely unnecessary interjection he was well aware, but... “nothing’s _just_ with Clarke.”

Wells, to Bellamy’s eternal gratitude, was one of those people who could listen without appearing judgment. He looked watchful, curious, but nothing in his expression made Bellamy feel like a mess. That didn’t mean that Bellamy was _not_ a mess, but it was nice not to be immediately identified as one. 

“She’s my best friend,” he offered lamely. It was as good an explanation as any, though it didn’t really justify whatever _that_ had been.

Wells however just nodded, still looking thoughtful. “You’re right,” he said, careful somehow, “That’s not just _just_.”

 

***

“I’m sorry!”  
  
“Sorry’s not good enough, Bell! Six o’clock _means_ six o’clock.”  
  
He grinned, flopping back onto his bed and adjusting the phone slightly. “You’re right. My sincerest apologies.”  
  
Octavia _hmphed_ imperiously, but she continued talking straight away, launching into a detailed account of the intricate and precarious social structure of ninth grade. He had missed his sister’s voice, and he loved the way her spiky vivacity emerged overwhelmingly even through the cellphone.  
  
“Okay I’m done,” she announced abruptly. “Your turn.”

“Well, soccer season started today. The guys are going to need a shit ton of conditioning but...”

She let him continue for about fifteen seconds before breaking. “I am begging you, switch to literally any other topic.”  
  
“You want me to discuss Latin conjugations in Ovid? Because--”  
  
“ _Bell_!”

He smirked, and she made a groaning noise as though she could hear him. “Alright little sister, what do you wanna know?”

“Have you gotten into any fights yet?”  
  
“What? No!”  
  
She huffed, disappointed. He made a mental note to sign her up for Taekwondo or something to prevent her from picking schoolyard brawls for fun. “Any girlfriend yet? Wait, are you still friends with Clarke?”  
  
“Of course!”  
  
“Then never mind.”  
  
He frowned. “Wait, wha--”  
  
“Anything else interesting happen?”

“Yeah, um, there’s a new guy called Wells, he’s the Dean’s kid, pretty cool guy...but what did you mean?”  
  
She adopted a mockingly innocent tone. “What did I mean about what?”

“O.”  
  
“Bell.”  
  
“ _O_!”

She sighed theatrically. I mean, if you’re still _friends--_ ” she drew out the word-- “with Clarke then I highly doubt you’ve progressed beyond casual fucks with anyone else yet.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay first of all, please never use that phrase in connection with me. Or anything else relating to my sex life. Seriously. But what do you _mean_?”

She tutted, irritable now. “Oh come on big brother, you know no one’s going to date you when Clarke’s around, you’re practically married!”  
  
He sat up in bed. “We are not! Only you think that.”  
  
Octavia scoffed audibly. “Really? No one else thinks that?” 

His hesitation answered her question, and she cackled.  
  
“Oh fuck off,” he muttered, “it’s not like a _thing_....not _many_ people think that. Jasper does, but Jasper’s _Jasper_. And Wells, but Wells has known us for a week.”  
  
“Which is more than enough time for everyone _else_ to wake up and smell the roses.”  
  
“I’m hanging up.”  
  
“No, you're not.”

He didn’t hang up, but only because she agreed to change the subject.

***

Bellamy had to take three sharp sips off his coffee before processing that _yes_ his seat was indeed occupied. He and Clarke had claimed those two seats at the start of the year, given that their sole purpose in taking World Lit was to pass notes and have mindless whispered arguments about totally arbitrary things for their own amusement. But now there was someone in his seat, and after his fourth sip of coffee (fuck 8 am classes honestly) he could see that someone was Wells. Clarke didn’t seem to have noticed, because she was describing her Genetics project to him animatedly, using her hands a lot, and hadn’t seen Bellamy yet. Whatever, he decided, and moved up one row, clambering over a girl to sit behind Wells.  
  
Wells leaned back quickly. “Hey man, sorry, is this your seat? I can move...”  
  
Bellamy waved his hand. “Forget about it, it’s fine.”  
  
“Oh, hey Bell!” Clarke turned around, finally registering his presences. She reached back and slapped at his foot in greeting, before turning forward again as Professor Tsing cleared her throat.

“Today,” began the professor in her high fluting voice, “we start _Romeo and Juliet_. Get your books out please.”

There was a general murmuring as everyone rifled around to dig their books out.  
  
“Now,” she said, “who has read this before?”  
  
Almost every hand in the hall went up.  
  
“This is unsurprising. Most of you read it in High School, yes?”

Another murmur of assent.  
  
“I thought as much. Now you’re probably wondering why I’m having you read it again.” She moved our from behind her podium, starting to pace as she talked, a habit that always set Bellamy slightly on edge. “A great work of literature,” she said, “can be read at many levels. The same text can be perceived multitudinous different ways depending on the profile of the person reading it. Bearing this in mind, how do you think your perception of the play may change now you’re older?”  
  
A few people raised their hands. “Miss Willox?”

A short girl with blue hair spoke up. “We have a more refined grasp of literary devices and terms now than we did as kids?”  
  
Professor Tsing hummed. “True. But would this change your _interpretation_ of the play or simply the sophistication with which you discuss that interpretation? What else would change? Miss Griffin?”  
  
Bellamy glanced down at Clarke as she sat up straighter, her “classroom” voice ready. “Our sympathy for the main characters will have decreased because the credence we give to their relationship will have declined.”  
  
Professor Tsing slowed her pacing. “Can you elaborate on that Miss Griffin?”  
  
Clarke cleared her throat. “Well, the nature of Romeo and Juliet’s relationship is very short and passionate, based largely upon attraction and the appeal of forbidden love. As young teenagers that would have seemed more romantic or relatable to us,” she explained, “but now we’re more mature--”  
  
“For the most part,” interjected the professor, smiling.  
  
Clarke grinned. “For the most part. But that means that love and relationships mean something different to us, they work differently.”

Professor Tsing nodded. “Very interesting, Miss Griffin. Since you told us what you thought love meant to Romeo and Juliet, could you contextualize your point by explaining what love means to you now?”

Bellamy couldn’t see her face, but she knew Clarke would be blinking rapidly, thrown a little by the question. He also knew she would answer it, he just wasn’t sure how. He also wasn’t sure why his throat constricted.  
  
“Love...” Clarke pronounced the word as though she were tasting some strange new flavour, and Bellamy could practically hear the furrow of her brow as she concentrated. “Love is....friendship. Love is friendship.”  
  
Professor Tsing gestured at her to elaborate.  
  
“To have a relationship that’s worthwhile,” Clarke said slowly, “you have to have mutual trust and respect with your partner right? And you need to be comfortable in order for passion to last. The stronger the underlying friendship, the stronger the relationship. If you can’t be each other’s best friend, you can’t have a meaningful relationship.”

At that point, the discussion segewayed into a debate about whether she had been too dismissive of the love in Shakespeare’s play, whether willing suspension of disbelief or further Shakespearean context ought to be applied when judging the play.

Bellamy heard none of this discussion, because there was a sort of pulsing noise in his ear that he later realised must have been a rush of blood to the head. Because Bellamy was staring at Clarke, and Clarke was looking at the Professor, neither of them saw Bellamy’s expression. Wells, who had glanced over his shoulder, drawn by some strange gut instinct, did see it. He saw the wide-blown pupils of Bellamy’s eyes, glinting with a dawning understanding, and he saw the flush seeping up Bellamy’s skin, accentuating his freckles and reaching the tips of his ears. He saw the bob of Bellamy’s throat, and the erratic rise-and-fall of his chest, and the slight tremble of his hand. Wells saw it all, and felt something very strange as he glanced between Bellamy, and Clarke, who was scribbling notes intently. He picked at the corner of his nail and wondered.

***

“Where’d Bellamy go?” Clarke asked, a little confused-- the bell had barely rung.  
  
“He bolted,” Wells offered, “maybe he was running late.”  
  
Clarke shrugged. “I guess you can walk me to Chem then.” She grinned at him.  
  
He smiled back, though there was something shifting in his expression that she could not read. “Okay.”

When they finally arrived at the Chem building, Wells turned almost jarringly quickly to go, but he was stopped by a small pair of fingers circled around his wrist. He glanced backward, a little wary, though not enough to ignore the slight acceleration of his pulse. 

“Hey, Wells?” Clarke said, dropping his wrist.

“Yeah?”

She smiled, mischievous but a little vulnerable as she stuck out her hand and quirked an eyebrow. “Friends?” 

***

It was one in the morning Pacific time when Octavia Blake’s phone rang, so she didn’t even want to _know_ why her brother was still up in Boston.

“Do I want to know why you’re calling at this time Bell?” she asked, hoping her gruffness successfully smothered her concern.

He made a muffled, strangled sound as though he’d choked something away from the phone.

“What was that?”

When he spoke again, it was clearer, though he still sounded wrecked. “I _said--_ ” even at a time like this he couldn’t rein in the sarcasm, unbelievable-- “I’m in love with my best friend.”

Octavia wanted to say something comforting. She really did. What came out was: “I fucking _told you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it!! Comments/Kudos are my guiding light, my muse, my motivation in the bleak cold world, please feed me...


	4. Because That's All You'll Ever Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would be fine. Clarke was crushing on Wells, she might even date Wells, but it’s not like she was in love with the guy. So basically, as long as he and Clarke were still, well, he and Clarke, Bellamy would be fine. It would be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who keeps reading and reviewing, because I have a minor existential meltdown every time I update this thing since I'm still not sure that this isn't the dumbest AU ever written. Might I just say, god I love ignoring canon Octavia. Also, if you ever wonder why I'm pulling such cheesy, barely realistic shit here, just remember: I based this off a Bollywood film. Willing suspension of disbelief is a mandate. If the writers can write Season 3A, I can do anything I want. This is a fairly light fluffy chapter this time because 'tis the season (and also, there's a painfest on the horizon very soon so...), enjoy!
> 
> The lyrics belong to Disney.

Clarke grabbed Bellamy’s wrist to glance at the watch.  
  
“I’m telling you,” he said raising an eyebrow at her, “if you bought your own you wouldn’t need to assault my hand seventeen times a day.”“What if I just like your hands?” she retorted, but rolled her eyes and shoved his arm away affectionately, “anyway, the point is is that it’s still only noon but it

“What if I just like your hands?” she retorted, but rolled her eyes and shoved his arm away affectionately, “anyway, the point is is that it’s still only noon but it _feels_ like four fifteen.”

“Huh,” he so that he could face her properly, “that’s an oddly specific time. Why four fifteen?”

“It’s such a...such a _blah_ time,” she said, waving her hand vaguely as though searching for something, “it’s like, not quite evening but not really afternoon, nothing’s _fun_.”

“I have a hunch we could be having significantly _more_ fun if we weren’t crouching under a bush right now.”

“Against,” Clarke huffed, “we’re crouching _against_ a bush.” 

Bellamy made an unimpressed sound in the back of his throat. “The bush is engulfing us, Clarke. There are leaves in _every_ crevice.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Oh, stop whining.”

“Hey!” he protested, “I have _every_ right to whine. I still don’t know why we’re burying ourselves in a bush, since you failed to explain that detail why you were hauling me in here.” 

She shot him a withering stare. “It’s Open Mic, remember?”

Bellamy’s disparaging look morphed at a satisfyingly rapid speed into a horrified one. “ _Shit_!”

“Ya think?”

Bellamy, still wincing, shook his head slightly. “Okay, that makes somewhat more sense, but _still_ , we can’t camp out here for _four hours_.”

“That might be uncomfortable,” said a voice from above them.

Clarke glanced up sharply and saw Wells grinning downward, looking amused. 

“What’s the occasion?” he asked, crouching down so he was at their level.

“Hang on,” Clarke said, feeling a sort of rush for no good reason, “Bellamy, move up a little.”

Bellamy obliged, and after a moment’s hesitation, Wells slipped into the space that opened up between them. Clarke could feel his arm pressed against her side. 

“So do you two just really like shrubbery?” he asked.

“We’re hiding from your Dad,” Bellamy supplied, “no offense.”

Wells made a face. “Is he on one of his weird conversion campaigns again? Because I think he read that weird Light Worshipping Cult book recently so if he’s trying to recruit just--”

“No,” Clarke laughed, “that’s not it. But that is definitely a topic we will return to later because _woah_. But it’s nothing that insidious, he just wants us to make fools of ourselves onstage in front of thousands.”

“Is this about that concert thing he mentioned?”

The bush shook when Bellamy laughed. “It’s hardly a concert,” he said, “it’s the quarterly Open Mic in the Student Center.”

“It’s basically God’s punishment to suffering college students everywhere,” Clarke says, “which you should be able to guess by the fact that it’s held from noon to four. It’s several mediocre performances from a bunch of pretentious singers who _think_ they’re the next Bruno Mars or whatever.”

“Don’t be so reductive,” Bellamy interjected, “there’s always the one modern dance act that you _think_ is good but can’t really tell because it’s modern dance--”

“Don’t forget the offensive frat-boy stand-up,” Clarke said, grinning at Wells, “because no-homo jokes, sexist remarks about women, and racist accents are the gold standard for comedy--”

“Wow,” Wells says, “it sounds nightmarish. But is it so bad that you have to hide under a bush--”

“Told you we were under it!” Bellamy yelled, chucking a twig at Clarke over the top of Wells's head.

“--To escape it’s noxious performances?” Wells finished, a small, private smile tugging at his lips. 

Clarke shook her head, flipping Bellamy the bird as she did so. “Oh no, it’s actually super fun. That’s why it always has such a great turnout--people go along to scoff and make drinking games out of the experience. We’re hiding _against_ the bush because Jaha--um, your Dad--”

“I’m aware.”

Clarke shoved him playfully and made a mental note that his arms were deceptively firm. “Jaha wants _us_ to join the shenanigans.”

Wells furrowed his brow, and Clarke thought it was adorable. “Like...he’s seeking out you two specifically?”

Bellamy, who’d been quiet for a while, piped up again. “He’s only been on our case about this for the past _twelve_ Open Mics.”

Wells did a quick mental calculation. “All of them except the first one your Freshman year?”

At this, both Bellamy and Clarke reddened, and Wells got a rare grin. “Oh this story I _have_ to hear.”

“We were drunk,” Clarke said, “like, _stupid_ drunk, buzzed-on-the-newfound-freedom-of-college drunk.”

Bellamy shook his head, staring into space like he was telling a war story. “We signed up as a joke. But when you’re that smashed, you forget that it’s a _joke_.”

“We got on stage and just...”

“Celine Dion, My Heart Will Go On. Queen, Bohemian Rhapsody. Cristina Perri, Jar of Hearts,” Bellamy, grinning wryly, turned to look at Wells, “just some numbers from the _forty-minute setlist_ we ended up performing.”

“There were professors in the audience,” horror and laughter tinged Clarke’s tone, “and our classmates.”

“It was a disaster,” Bellamy summarised, “we were both over-exuberant and completely out of tune.”

“We danced,” Clarke offered, “like, interpretive danced. It was _so bad_.”

Wells’s shoulders were shaking with laughter by this point. “That sounds like something special.”

“Your Dad thought so,” Bellamy said, “whilst everyone else just gave us shit for weeks and laughed, he seemed to think we’d done some kind of ingenious performance art piece about capturing the spirit of youth or some bullshit.”

“We had to work hard to leave that behind,” Clarke said, “now I am a scary artsy pre-med student and Bell is the resident grumpy old man. We’ve cultivated our reputations carefully, so no disrespect to your Dad but neither one of us is eager to revisit that particular event.”

“I hear you and I understand you,” Wells said, “truly I do. Unfortunately, I feel like this might be the time to face the music,” he nodded ahead at where Thelonious Jaha was powering towards them, doing something between running and flying.

“Jesus Christ,” Bellamy groaned.

“We could use his help,” Clarke agreed.

The three of them clambered to their feet, and Clarke reached across Wells to tug a few leaves from Bellamy’s curls and ruffle his hair out. 

“Meet your doom stylishly,” she said when he tutted--without any heat--at her.

“Hey Dad,” Wells greeted his father as Jaha stopped in front of them.

“Son,” Jaha nodded, then grasped Bellamy and Clarke by an arm each. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you two!”

“Um, we were just about to--”

“Never mind that!” he waved Bellamy off, “there has been a catastrophe of epic proportions! A calamity!”

Clarke wondered briefly just how stressed the Dean would be if, say, a volcanic eruption happened, or an earthquake.

“You must accompany to the Student center immediately. _Immediately_!” he reiterated when no one moved. 

“Alright,” Clarke said, already wary, “at your service.”

***

As far as Bellamy knew, there was no actual precedent on what to do when you realised you were in love with your best friend. However, if he had to hazard a guess, he’d say it was very unlikely that crowding next to them in a tight enclosed space, alone, for a fair bit of time was probably _not_ advised. Because _God_ that had been terrible for his sanity. Ever since his epiphany he had pretty much thought of nothing _but_ figuring out the Clarke Situation. No, he hadn’t been successful, but it’s not like he magically expected to become emotionally competent because the situation demanded it. Anyway, the point was, it had been a relief in a weird, masochistic way when Wells showed up, because he had allowed Bellamy to stop thinking about his most pressing issue-- _I am near-apoplectically in love with Clarke_!--and think about his other still somewhat distressing but less dire situation-- _I’m pretty sure Clarke likes (like,_ like _likes) Wells!_ Because he knew Clarke, he knew her really well, and he’d seen her have crushes through the years. Forget _seen_ her, he had been her reluctant therapist through most of her crushes since they’d become friends. And the signs were all there. She wasn’t typically a people person, but she _liked_ Wells, she sought him out. Bellamy had seen her eyes dart towards the guy whenever they were in a room together, always hyperaware of him. She definitely had a crush on him. And that was....that was _fine_. It really was. Because, Bellamy reasoned, she’d had crushes before. This wasn’t a new thing. In fact the only thing that had changed between him and Clarke was the fact that he now knew he had feelings for her. And _his_ emotional messes didn’t give him the right to suddenly start feeling jealous or anything, he knew that. It would be fine. Clarke was crushing on Wells, she might even _date_ Wells ( _Which would be fine_ , Bellamy told himself resolutely, _absolutely_ fine), but it’s not like she was in love with the guy. Fuck, he didn’t even know if Wells liked Clarke ( _though he’d be an idiot not to_ , Bellamy told himself). So basically, as long as he and Clarke were still, well, _he and Clarke_ , Bellamy would be fine. It would be fine. 

Aside from the fact that Dean Jaha was currently trying to force them to perform.

“One of the main acts bowed out!” he was saying, arms flailing in desperation. “They signed up for a twenty minute block!”

“No offense, sir, but if any of the acts had a twenty minute act planned then their dropping out id probably a blessing in disguise,” Clarke said. 

“The integrity of this establishment is on the line,” Jaha said, “honour is at stake!”

“The Open Mic brings many things, Mr Jaha,” Bellamy said, “honour _really_ isn’t one of them!”

“I am asking you to step up!” he said “you’re seniors! Lead by example! Grace the world with your gifts!”

“ _No_!” Bellamy and Clarke snapped in unison.

“C’mon Dad,” Wells said, torn between mortification and mirth, “let them be.”

“It’s the last Open Mic of your college careers! Jaha protested.

“Except the other three happening this year,” Bellamy muttered darkly.

Monty, a friend of Clarke’s from her Organic Chemistry class who ran AV for the show stuck his head behind the curtain. “The next act is due on in three minutes.”

“See,” Clarke offered diplomatically, “we can’t possibly conceive of and perform an act in three-- _what the fuck_!” 

 

Thelonious Jaha--Dean of Students at one of the most elite institutions of higher education in the United States of America, and overcome with fervid desperation--shoved two of his favourite senior students forcibly out past the curtains and onto the stage, leaving them blinking in the glare of the spotlight. 

“Okay,” Bellamy said, voice slow with that calm that comes when you’re past all ability to panic enough, “okay. That had to be illegal, right? Can we have him arrested?”

Next to him, Clarke shrugged. “Maybe later,” she hissed, hoping only he could hear her, “but I think we’re stuck for right now.”

There was a deafening silence of expectation from the audience (most of whom were already south of sober) and for a second, the only sound Clarke heard was that of Bellamy’s watch ticking.

Then someone, who was almost certainly Jasper shouted, “YEAH MOM AND DAD!” and the room exploded into a mixture of jeering and whooping.

“Remind me,” Bellamy said faintly, “to kill that kid the next time I see him.”

“What do we do?” she asked, gripping at his arm in panic, knowing full well he didn’t have a solution.

“So help me God, if Monty doesn’t cut the lights and feign a technical error to free us from this hell right now--” Bellamy’s tirade was cut off by a sudden squeal of feedback and Wells bursting forth from the curtain looking like he’d run a 100 meter sprint.

“Just go with it,” he whispered to them as the first strains of music blared. 

Very familiar music. 

“No!” Bellamy’s eyes went wide in horror, “absolutely not!”

“We don’t have another option Bell,” Clarke countered, though she didn’t exactly look thrilled either. “Oh fuck it,” she muttered, and surged forward to the microphone.“ _We’re soarin’, flyin’, there’s not a star in heaven that we can’t reach_ ,”

Wells picked up quickly, “ _if we’re tryin’, so we’re breakin’ free_.”

Bellamy pinched his arm, hoping desperately that he would wake up free of whatever nightmare this was. 

“ _You know the world can see us, in a way that’s different than who we are._ ”

“ _Creating space between us, ooh till we’re separate hearts,”_

Wells and Clarke were grinning at each other now, nerves slowly giving way to amusement at the sheer absurdity of everything. Clarke took Wells’ hand.

“ _But your faith, it gives me strength, strength to believe_.”

Bellamy decided then and there that no amount of alcohol on Earth would make his situation any easier, so he just burst forward with “ _We’re breaking free!_ ”

“ _We’re soarin’”_

_“Flyin’”_

_“There’s not a star in heaven that we can’t reach! If we’re tryin’! Yeah we’re breakin’ free!”_

The crowd was _wild_ this point, Clarke had dropped to her knees and was head-banging, all embarrassment gone, and Bellamy could see the soccer team catcalling him. He might have been having an out-of-body experience.

 

Eventually, they got through five High School Musical songs to a standing ovation, and the three of them staggered off-stage, mostly in stitches and still half-singing.

“That was embarrassing,” Bellamy pronounced, breathless, “cripplingly, irreparably embarrassing. I’m never going to another soccer practice again.”

“Oh you loved it,” Clarke laughed, knocking his shoulder. “It was exhilarating!”

Wells grinned. “You guys weren’t exaggerating. You really _can’t_ sing.”

Clarke leaned up and gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek. “ _Thank you_ ,” she said, “we’d have been dead out there without you.”

Bellamy saw Wells flush slightly, but examined his own fingernails with unusual focus. 

“Happy to help,” Wells said, as they walked up to Jaha’s house. “This is me.” 

Clarke hugged him as he left, and she didn’t start walking again till he reached the door, turned back, waved, and disappeared inside. 

“It was _fun_ ,” she said to Bellamy as they kept going, nudging him teasingly, “admit it!”

He glanced at her, and her hair was a flyaway mess and her face was red and she still hadn’t quite gotten her breath back and she was beaming like a fucking shooting star, and, well, he _adored_ her. He smiled because he couldn’t help it, even though something inside his chest was throbbing painfully. “It was alright.”

***

Octavia wanted the record to state that she _did_ eventually manage to stop laughing, but emphasis on _eventually_. “I can’t believe I’m addressing real live Troy Bolton here.”

Bellamy glowered at the screen which showed her beaming face. “I don’t know why I tell you anything.”

“You love me.”

“Most of the time. Besides, I was definitely the Chad in this scenario.”

“Chad didn’t sing _Breaking Free_ , you heathen.”

“Kelsi, then. A solid Kelsi Nielsen.”

Octavia chuckled. “So now you’ve progressed as far as actually serenading her live on stage, are you going to grow a pair and ask Clarke out?”

Her brother groaned into his hands. “What part of _she’s into someone else_ did not make sense to you?” 

She pulled her hair back into a ponytail. “I’m not hearing that she explicitly stated she was into someone else here.”

“She didn’t, O, but it’s not that simple. I _know_ her. And she definitely likes Wells. Maybe not--fuck, it’s not like I’m sulking and saying she’ll marry the guy, I’m just saying that she definitely notices him in a way she wouldn’t if she--if my feelings were requited.”

Something in his face made Octavia soften. “Bell,” she said, “she doesn’t _know_ how you feel. How can she requite if she doesn’t know there’s anything to reciprocate?”

Bellamy didn’t look entirely convinced, but he didn’t immediately respond, and Octavia took that as an invitation to continue. “What’s the worst thing that could happen if you told her?”

Bellamy grimaced. “I freak her out, she never speaks to me again, and I lose the most significant and valuable friendship of my life?”

Octavia sighed. “You’re telling her you like her and, I don’t know, inviting her out for coffee, big brother, not immediately proposing marriage. Think about her realistically. If you tell her how you feel calmly and without trying to force anything, _then_ what’s the worst thing that could happen?”

Bellamy glanced at his feet, but Octavia saw his throat bob. “She rejects me.”

“And given how long you’ve been friends, especially since you used to hate each other and built up to this, do you think a rejection is something you guys can move past?”

It took him a while, but Bellamy nodded, a juddering sigh apparently wrenched from his throat. “She won’t--I don’t think Clarke would--It might be weird for a while. But I don’t think Clarke would abandon me or anything. Not now.”

Octavia smiled. “And what if she ended up saying yes, huh? What if you tell her and she feels the same?”

Bellamy did not answer but his expression was enough. She watched his eyes widen and his lips part and his cheeks redden and the slight, powerful smile tug at his face. 

“See?” she said. 

“When did you get so wise, O?” he asked, shaking his head fondly.

“While you were stumbling your way through adult emotion with depressing incompetence.”

He snorted. “Oh wait till you actually finish puberty, see if it’s as easy as you think.”

Octavia snorted. “So, this Wells guy? Do you hate him?” She leaned forward, grinning wolfishly. “You totally hate him, don’t you?

Bellamy rolled his eyes, but then looked serious, gentle. “Nah,” he said, “no, I don’t. You really _can’t_. He’s--” Bellamy carded a hand through his hair, making the curls jump--“he’s my friend.” He sounded sincere, and knowing her brother, he really was.

“You poor bastard.”

Now it was his turn to snort. “Pretty much.”

“But you’ll tell her, right? You’ll tell Clarke how you really feel?” She waggled her eyebrows, but the question was serious. 

Bellamy sighed. “Yeah. Yeah, O, I’ll tell her.”

***

“That was quite the triumph today son.”

Wells glanced up, spinning around in his chair to face his father as the man entered his room. He smiled, affectionately, because his dad was ridiculous, but it was his _dad._ “Thanks.”

“I’m glad you seem to be settling in well,” Jaha said, sitting on the edge of Wells’s bed. “You spend a lot of time with Mr Blake and Miss Griffin.”

Wells nodded. “They’re both really cool, I like them.”

His dad smiled. “I knew you would.” 

He half-expected his father to leave then, but because someone in the universe refused to cut Wells a break, he kept speaking.

“You seem to like Clarke Griffin in particular.”

He kept his face impassive. “I spend about the same amount of time with her and Bellamy,” he said, smiling lightly in a way that he hoped would close this line of conversation to his dad, “I don’t really play favourites.” _Especially between people who are_ each other’s _favourites_ , he thought (but did not say).

Jaha laughed. “Perhaps I phrased it wrong. You seem to like Clarke _differently_ than you do Bellamy.” 

“Dad I’m not going to have a crush on every girl I talk to, seriously!”

“But a smart, attractive young lady whose company you enjoy?”

He did not reply, because whether or not his father was right, this wasn’t a conversation he particularly wanted to have with him. 

“I’m not trying to force anything son,” Jaha said, and he did sound like he meant this all kindly, “but I want to see you happy. I want you...” he seemed to be choking up a little, and Wells moved to sit next to him on the bed, “I want you to have a shot at what your mother and I had, before she...”

He smiled, kind and teasing. “Are you trying to marry me off already, Dad?”

Jaha laughed. “Not at all, son. I just think Clarke is a wonderful young woman with whom I can see you being happy.”

Wells sighed, because it’s not like he _didn’t_ think about what dating Clarke would be like--it felt impossible not to. “Even if I _did_ have a thing for Clarke,” he explained, “I wouldn’t want to get between her and Bellamy.”

Jaha leaned back, looking surprised. “Whatever do you mean? Why would that get between them?”

Wells rubbed the back of his head. “Jesus, Dad, have you even seen them? It’s like they run on the same wavelength as each other, separate from everyone else. They’re both my friends, and I don’t want to jeopardize my friendship with Bellamy by going after Clarke!”

Jaha frowned. “Wells, I believe you’re quite mistaken. Mr Blake and Miss Griffin are good friends, close friends, everyone knows that. But they are _just_ friends!”

 _Not just_ , Wells remembered his conversation with Bellamy, _nothing’s_ just _with Clarke_. “I’m not sure you’re as much of an expert on your students’s love lives as you think, Dad.”

“Son, those two have known each other since they were _fourteen_ ,” he said gently, calmly. “I agree that sometimes close friendships can evolve into relationships, but don’t you think that if that was going to happen with those two, it would have already?”

Wells didn’t really have an answer for that.

His father got to his feet, sighing. “Look, son, I’m not saying you _have to_ do anything, I’m just saying, if you do have feelings for Clarke, don’t think that her friendship with Mr Blake is any reason for you not to act on it. It’s just friendship.”

With that, he left the room, and Wells heaved himself back to the desk, head spinning a little. He needed a moment to digest the conversation he’d just had.

Of course, he didn’t get a minute, because the next thing he knew, there was a tapping at his window, and, jumping to his feet, he saw impossibly and unmistakably Clarke’s face beaming at him through the glass.  
  
“Oh my God!” he cried, opening the window hastily and helping her in from the tree branch she had clambered up, “what are you _doing_?”

She flashed her teeth at him when she grinned. “Paying a visit! I come bearing gifts.” She hefted a brown paper bag in one hand, and she emptied it onto his bed, revealing an assortment of chocolates and sour gummies.

Wells stared at her. “Why did you come in through the _window_ , Romeo?” he laughed in disbelief, “my Dad would have let you in through the door.”

She blushed, and well, it was _cute_. “Oh. Well, I didn’t know that. My way was more foolproof.”

“Apart from the bit where you could have fallen out the tree and died,” he said, sitting across her on the bed and opening up a peanut butter cup, because why not?

She chuckled. “Pre-med, remember? I could’ve put myself back together.”

He shook his head in delighted disbelief. “Seriously, what’re you doing here?”

She smiled shyly, and Wells felt a surge of warmth. “I had a lot of fun today,” she said. A beat, and then: “I wanted to see you again.” It came out soft, like an admission, and Wells found himself replaying his conversation with his father in his head.

“I’m honoured,” he said, “I don’t think anyone’s ever been breaking-and-entering levels of desperate to see me before.”

“Hey!” Clarke threw a Jolly Rancher at his head and he ducked, grinning, “I wasn’t desperate! This is a thematic continuation of our karaoke.”

Wells thought for a moment before he got it. “Ah, High School Musical Three, right? Troy climbs through a window to give Gabriella a picnic?”

“You make a lovely Gabriella.”

They smiled at each other, and slowly Wells allowed himself to just _like_ her. She was an awesome, cute girl and she climbed through a window in the middle of the night to hang out with him. This was straight out of a teen romance movie. It seemed silly to act like he _didn’t_ like her now.

They talked until the snacks ran out, and then Wells heard his father coming up the stairs.  
“Shit,” Clarke said, scrambling to her feet, “he might have been cool with letting me in but I doubt your Dad will be thrilled to find I broke into his house.”

“Technically I let you in,” Wells said, “but I see your point. Are you sure you can get out the window again?”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah. Just don’t tell Bellamy, he’d have an aneurysm and buy me a bicycle helmet to wear everywhere.” She looked fondly exasperated as she said it, and Wells felt a familiar surge of guilt when he thought about his friend. 

Clarke meanwhile already had one leg out the window, when she turned back. “Seriously Wells, I really enjoyed today.”

And then she stumbled back into the room, tugged on his shirt and kissed him. Wells froze in shock for a second, but then he was kissing her back, softly and sweetly enough that he felt like something warm was melting through his body.

She pulled away, smiling. “ _All_ of it.”

“Clarke,” he croaked before he could stop himself, “would you want to go out with me sometime?”

She actually looked surprised by that, which made no sense given the circumstance, but then she pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” she said as she leaned back, smiling, a bloom of pink spreading across her cheeks, “yeah, I’d really like that.”

Moments later, she disappeared back out of the window, and Wells was left staring at his ceiling feeling like he had just run out into the middle of a hurricane. There was still something unsettled in his chest, a whisper of doubt darting in-and-out of his head like a moth around a lightbulb. But there was the memory of Clarke’s mouth still warm against his and her voice next to his ear, so that night, Wells Jaha fell asleep smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Put the magic of Yuletide in your hearts and leave me some Comments/Kudos <3


	5. Between the Shadow and the Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There wasn’t a lot in his life Bellamy felt like he had control of right now, but this? This was something he could do. He still wasn’t exactly unafraid of the idea that telling Clarke how he felt would jeopardize their friendship and ruin what they had--and to be very clear, Bellamy valued his friendship with her above most things. This confession wasn’t about some “escape the friendzone” bullshit, just that he felt like his heart would swell until there was no room in his chest left to hold it and no strength in his body left to bear the weight if he didn’t tell her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'M NOT DEAD!!! But I _am _very very very sorry this chapter took so long to get up. I'm at a really tricky part in the story to write plot-wise so I took a while wrangling with how to to do this. Don't hold me to it, but I think this will be the penultimate flashback chapter, so I hope you guys are up for a fair bit of angst in the near future.__
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> _In other news, I actually am kind of dead because the amount of Bellarke pandering Season 4 has given us thus far has slain me and thrust me into a higher plane of existence. I die in the knowledge that there has got to be a fic writer in the writers' room, because how else did they come up with "If I'm on that list, you're on that list"? These are the questions that haunt me._  
>  _

“How’s she doing?” Bellamy kept his voice low, hoping the creaking of the floorboards as he paced the corridor wouldn’t wake anyone. 

“I don’t know,” Octavia’s voice sounded small over the phone and he _hated_ it. “I mean she _says_ she doesn’t need to go to the hospital.”

 _Because we can’t afford it_. “Then she’s probably doing okay,” he said, praying his voice sounded steady.

“She keeps coughing.” His sister sounded unhappy, but a little desperate. She _wanted_ him to be right.

“Can I speak to her?”

There was a muffle of activity as Octavia passed the phone over.

“Hi baby.” Her voice was hoarse, more tired since the last time they spoke.

“Mom” he breathed. “How are you?”

He could hear her moving, probably walking to a room where Octavia wouldn’t overhear. “I’m fine baby.”

Bellamy exhaled heavily, wearily. 

“It’s just the weather changing. You know that always gets going. It’ll clear up soon.”

“You should see a doctor.”

“We’ll see. Enough about me--how’s school going?”

“Yeah, ’s good, I guess.” There was a tinny taste in his mouth. His scholarship meant tuition wasn’t an issue for them, but he was so _far away_.

Aurora sighed, then coughed a little. He got the feeling she was holding back as best she could, and it didn’t make him feel any better. “It’s late. I’m going to let you sleep now.”

“Okay. Tell Octavia goodnight from me.”

He held the phone to his ear a moment too long after she hung up, the beep muffled by distance and poor signal. 

His roommate didn’t stir as he slipped back inside and flopped onto his bed. The blinds were slightly open so that a bluish streak of moonlight fell directly across Bellamy’s eyes, but he didn’t mind too much. He could pretend that it was the light keeping him awake. For all Bellamy was overprotective and a natural-born worrier, there had been a more visceral fear when he left his sister behind to come to Arkadia. She hadn’t understood, she was just a kid, and it was _Arkadia_. But she was--and he loved his mother, he did, and he knew she tried her best--in many ways, _alone_. Aurora Blake was too sick to really be as active a mother as a young teenage girl needed. At least when Bellamy had been at home he had been able to do much of the “raising Octavia” stuff himself. Now he was here...

The light streaming in through his window flickered for a moment as a bird or something must have flown past the streetlamp. Bellamy sighed and rolled over to try sleep.

***

“Hey,” Clarke bumped her shoulder against his as she slipped in the chair next to him and slid him a glass of apple juice.

Bellamy shot her a wry grin as he sipped it. “Thanks,” his voice was gruff with sleep, “though I feel like this would mean more if I didn’t already _have_ a glass of juice. From the machine. That’s literally right behind us.”

“Shut up and drink,” she said, “you look like you need a pick-me-up.”

He grimaced. “I should really have shaved if you think I’m in such bad shape I need the restorative powers of Tropicana at seven in the morning.”

“Feel free to drop the grumpy-yet-stoic veneer and spill what’s actually going on at _any time_.”

Her expression was fond, amused, but Bellamy recognised the softness behind it and his heart stuttered a little. 

“Is it your mom again?”

He nodded. “Yeah. She’s uh...yeah she’s not doing so good. I mean it’s not critical or anything, not yet. But.”

“It sucks?”

His lips quirked in spite of himself. “It sucks.”

Clarke wrapped an arm around him and squeezed, dropping her head to his shoulder. 

Bellamy swallowed a little, trying to hear himself think over the clamour of the dining hall. “Clarke?”

“Hm?”

“Is there anything you wished you said or did....or did differently....you know, before your Dad passed?”

He watched her carefully, and though her eyes lowered the way they always did whenever she thought about Jake Griffin, she looked thoughtful rather than upset.

“The usual stuff I guess? I wish I’d said I love you more times? It’s--I didn’t know.”

“Sorry to bring it up. I just...” he shook his head. “Is it fucked up that in a way I’m _glad_?” He shook his head, resting his face in his hands. “Not that...not glad that she’s sick, just...glad I know what’s coming. Because I do. I know there’s only one way this goes. Maybe in a couple of years, maybe a little longer, but. _Shit_ I know it’s fucked up...”

“It’s _not_ ,” Clarke threaded a hand through his hair and scratched lightly at his scalp. “I reiterate. The situation _sucks_. But I get it okay?” 

He let himself lean into her touch. “Thank you,” he said, hoarse. “For being here.”

She hummed against his hair. “I always will be.”

“Gross.”

“Yeah, well.”

But he _was_ glad, he couldn’t help it. Not just about the lack of uncertainty around his mother, but for Clarke. It’s not that he didn’t think he could cope without her, it was just a lot better that he didn’t have to. He closed his eyes. One of these days, his sappy love confession was going to spill out and it would be all kinds of embarrassing and he might never live it down. But there’d be time for that later--this was _Clarke_. They had all the time in the world.

***

Wells wiped his hands off on his jeans. As a concept, being nervous before a date seemed a bit stupid to him. The hard part was over. He’d asked her out, she’d said yes. They could relax now. In practice, being nervous seemed like the only logical situation. 

“I’m surprised you’re not pacing.”

Wells jumped a little, slackening when he saw it was Clarke watching him with an amused glint in her eyes.

“Should I be?”

She shrugged, lips twitching at the corners. “I don’t know, but I figure with all the nervous finger tapping and swallowing, pacing is the natural next step here. If you need me to come back in five minutes so you can walk back-and-forth a little that’s cool.”

He laughed, stepping forward from his porch. “I’ll bear that in mind for next time.”

“Next time, huh?”

“Hey, I’m trying to be an optimist here.”

She smiled more widely at that, then leaned up to brush her lips to his cheek. “Hi.”

“Hey. You ready to go?”

She nodded and took his hand, and he felt a warmth blossoming from his chest. This was _good_ , he reminded himself, this was going just fine.

 

The restaurant was nice without being fancy, which suited them both perfectly well. They each got a different kind of pasta and ended up sharing them both, and he had time to marvel at the fact that she really was as smart and funny and generally awesome as she’d seemed thus far. And Wells wasn’t trying to overestimate anything here, but he felt like Clarke was into him too. At least, if the kiss she gave him at the end of the night--brief but warm and enthusiastic--was anything to go by. 

“I had fun,” she said when she pulled pack, and the flush on her cheeks made his throat a little scratchy, “thank you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” he said. “So um...would you--”

“Sunday” she said, grinning and squeezing his hand “six o’clock. I’ll pick you up.”

He blinked. “I look forward to it.”

Clarke laughed softly. “Don’t look so surprised, Jaha. I intend to keep you.”

No one could blame him for walking into the door on his way back to the house. Anyone else in his position would have done the exact same thing. And therein lay the miracle really--somehow, by some lucky cosmic trick, no one else was in his position.

***

“So, weird question,” Wells said, tracing incoherent patterns onto the table with his fingertips, “have you told Bellamy about us?”

Clarke frowned. “Huh. No, no, I guess I haven’t.” She glanced up at him quickly. “It’s not like I’m hiding it or anything,” she hurried to explain, “it just hasn’t come up.”

“No, no, it’s not--I just figured you guys tell each other everything.”

She snorted. “What, Bellamy and I? Oversharing? _Never_. Seriously though, it’s not like we actively keep tabs on each other’s dating habits. Unless it’s a Tinder date. Because then he’s always paranoid it’s going to be a serial killer.”

Wells grinned but something in his stomach felt uneasy. The thought of Bellamy made him feel like he was getting away with something he shouldn’t be. “Would you mind if we did? Tell him?”

Clarke shrugged. “I wouldn’t _mind_ , no.” Her face grew serious and she leaned in, worrying her lip. “The thing is, what would I be telling him?”

He creased his forehead. “That...we’re dating?”

She made a small huffing sound. “Wells. I don’t key him in to every date I go on. Boyfriends or girlfriends on the other hand?” She leaned back then, trying to look casual, but Wells could see the tension there.

He felt a little like the wind had been knocked out of him. They’d been on a few dates so far, and they’d gone...well they’d gone _really_ well. He liked her, liked her a lot. Still, it seemed mystifying that she liked him as much as he liked her. But she was glancing at him, anxious and a little hopeful, and he let himself breathe, smiling. “Well then,” he said, “boyfriend it is.”

There were a number of adjectives that could be applied to Clarke’s smile, but they all paled into comparison to those that could be used to describe the kiss she stole his breath with. “Okay,” she said, pulling back from him, “I’ll tell Bellamy tomorrow.”

***

Monty wasn’t the type to complain about things being unfair. He wasn’t a whiner--not like Jasper who (and Monty meant this with all the love in the world) really could be a whiny bitch when it suited him--and liked to spend his energy finding practical solutions to problems rather than crying about them. That being said, there were some things, some indescribably and tragically unjust things that made him want to slam his head against a wall whilst screaming loudly and with no end in sight. And right now, Monty was being confronted with the foremost of these things, namely, Nathan Miller. The Vice Captain of the Men’s Varsity Soccer Team was not a figure whom Monty--a scrawny if not actually unattractive sophmore who preferred wavelengths and complex equations to any and all forms of athletics--should ever have really had to cross paths with, but apparently a higher deity had seen fit to render him the butt of a cosmic joke, making him suffer at the hands of _City of Light III: Red Dawn_ of all things. That was the really unfair part here. Video games, especially from his favourite fucking franchise, were supposed to be a safe happy place, free of feelings other than rage, frustration, and victory. They were _not_ supposed to be magical portals through which he and aforementioned Vice Captains could interact and allow Monty to discover that in addition to looking pretty great shirtless, Nathan Miller was the perfect mixture of sarcastic, laid back, genuine, funny, and smart. That _feelings_ had encroached on, nay,  _sprung from_ his sacred space was unforgivable. 

Or that’s what he was trying to explain to Jasper, who was looking steadily more confused. 

“What I’m getting,” Jasper said, shoving his goggles up his head, “is that you can’t come hang out during practice anymore because _City of Light_ triggered your sexual awakening--”

“What?” Monty shook his head. “No. _No_.” 

“Then what gives? It’s not like you weren’t seeing Miller sweaty and shirtless every practice before this. Miller and the rest of the team for that matter. Like, I don’t know exactly what you’re into, but they’re a pretty diverse group of guys. I figured that if seeing them practice would make you sexually frustrated it would already have happened.”

Monty glowered. “You’re missing the point. Several points, actually. For one thing, I’m not a _monk_ , Jas. I have actually dated people, you know, this isn’t some weird sexual repression thing.” He sighed. “This is _romantic_ frustration.” Jasper still look confused, so he sighed again. “Before, it was fun, okay? It was like watching Magic Mike or something, you know, purely aesthetic appreciation for a bunch of hot guys running around shirtless. Except for Murphy. I tried really hard to ignore him shirtless. And now...” Monty groaned and lowered his head to his hands, “now I know what Miller’s like. Like, _really_ like. He’s not some nameless eye-candy I can just have casual appreciation for anymore.”

“This is because you guys played _City of Light_ together.”

“Hey don’t judge me! You don’t to judge me, if you met an awesome girl on _COL_ you’d be all over that. Or you’d try to.”

“Just making sure I’ve got the facts straight.”

“Whatever. My _point_ is that if I show up at practice anymore I’m pretty sure I will actually die.”

“You already know what Miller looks like shirtless!” Jasper yelled. 

“I don’t need to _remind_ myself!”

“What don’t you need to remind yourself?”

Monty glanced up to see Clarke clamber down the bleachers to sit next to him. “What Miller looks like shirtless.”

To her credit, she didn’t ask for context, just shrugged and accepted it. “Abs. Not washboard, but they’re there.”

Jasper shook his head in incredulity. “So what’s your game plan here dude? Just never make eye-contact with him ever again?”

Monty considered for a moment. “Yes. Probably. Also, keep playing _City of Light_ and digging myself deeper into _emotional hell_.”

Jasper opened his mouth to speak, but Monty cut him off. “No no no, you don’t get to speak. You are the king of pining away desperately after people way out of your league and to no end. It’s my turn now.”

Clarke coughed. “I may have completely misunderstood whatever conversation it is I just walked into, but have you considered just...asking Miller out?”

The high-pitched coughing laugh Monty made was shrill enough that Jasper and Clarke both jumped slightly backwards. “Yeah,” he snorted, miserable, “ _right_.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Hey, it works! The direct approach is effective.”

“Listen,” Monty rubbed at his nonexistent beard, “I’m not saying there isn’t a time and place where just _asking_ doesn’t work. It worked with Harper, it worked with Cody. It’d probably work with someone like Lucas from Calc or whatever. But _Miller_?” Monty shook his head.

“He’s a _guy_ , Monty, not the messiah.”

“He may as well be! We move in different circles.”

Clarke looked like she was trying to contain her amusement, but, well, at least she was _trying_. “I feel like I’ve seen this exact movie before.”

Monty tutted. “He’s a _senior_.”

“So am I.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to _date you_.”

She clasped a hand to her heart, “I’m wounded.”

“For the record,” Jasper piped up, “I’d be a hundred percent down to date you.”

Clarke ruffled his hair. “Flattered. But I’ll pass.”

“He’s _athletic_ ,” Monty continued.

“And a nerd,” Clarke pointed out, “that’s a pretty combination these days--look at Bellamy. Speaking of--” Clarke pulled a bottle of electrolyte-infused water from her bag and thrust it at Jasper, “could you give this to Bellamy after practice starts? And make sure he drinks it. _All_ of it. He’ll try to intimidate you into giving up, don’t back down. If he faints from bodily salt imbalance on your watch I’ll be pissed, and I’m scarier than he is.”

“Duly noted, mom,” Jasper said taking the bottle with a grin. “But how come you aren’t sticking around to give it to him yourself. 

“I’ve got a lunch date,” she said, grinning.

They both blinked at her.

“See?” she nudged Monty with her foot, completely misinterpreting his aghast expression, “if you just _ask_ , great things happen.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he kicked her off, “we all wish we were as emotionally competent as you, Clarke.” He got to his feet. “Well, I’ll walk you out. I see the team heading on the field and I really need to evade my problems right now.”

***

Bellamy stared absently at his wristwatch, and by the time a minute passed he’d made up his mind--he had to tell her. There wasn’t a lot in his life Bellamy felt like he had control of right now, but this? This was something he could do. He still wasn’t exactly unafraid of the idea that telling Clarke how he felt would jeopardize their friendship and ruin what they had--and to be very clear, Bellamy valued his friendship with her above most things. This confession wasn’t about some “escape the friendzone” bullshit, just that he felt like his heart would swell until there was no room in his chest left to hold it and no strength in his body left to bear the weight if he didn’t tell her--but realistically? He kind of thought that wouldn’t happen. Because, whatever else was going on, this was _Clarke_. If he couldn’t be honest with her, he couldn’t be honest with anyone. And yeah, she might not feel the same way, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t keep being friends. _And what if she did feel the same way?_ a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Octavia’s whispered, “ _what then_?” But the sheer magnitude of the implications of that possibility were more than he could deal with just now, so he set that line of thinking lightly to the side. Honesty was the main goal here, that was all.

Of course, he hadn’t actually bargained on Clarke showing up two seconds after he’d come to that conclusion, but of course she did, because...because, well, _of course_. 

 

“Hey,” Bellamy said as she dropped onto the grass next to him.

“Hey! Did you drink your electrolytes?” He chucked the empty bottle at her in response, and Clarke grinned. “Just checking.”

“I was just about to go find you.”

“Yeah? Sorry I missed you at practice by the way.”

“Whilst I’m devastated you aren’t committed to being the most sedentary cheerleader of all time every practice I have, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.” He twisted the watch around his wrist.

“Well that’s a coincidence,” Clarke sat up a little straighter as she spoke, “because so do I.”

Bellamy glanced at her. “Do we toss a coin now, or do you wanna go first?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “It’s about why I didn’t come to your practice today, actually.”

“You finally realised I never offered you any ultimatum involving perfect attendance to all my practices?” He smiled when she shoved him.

“Shut up. Actually,” she said, feeling strangely nervous, “I had a date.”

The hand playing with his watch stilled. “Oh.”

“With my boyfriend.”

He was quiet for another moment, and she saw his throat working. “Do I know him?”

“Wells,” she said, “it’s Wells.”

Bellamy squinted up at the sky for a moment, like he was trying to spot a high-flying airplane. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,” she powered on, “it was just a couple of dates, we only made it official yesterday, and as soon as we did I wanted to let you know--”

“Clarke, it’s okay,” he smiled at her slightly. “I’m not mad you didn’t pre-approve your relationship with me.”

She gave a laugh of relief. “I know. Sorry, I just don’t want you to think it was some grand secret affair or anything.”

He chuckled softly, but didn’t speak again for a moment. “Wells, huh?” he said eventually.

“Yeah,” she glanced at him warily, but his face was carefully neutral.

“Does he make you happy?”

“Huh?”

“I know it sounds like a stupid question, given you’re dating him and all, but humour me for my own peace of mind. Does he make you happy?”

She rested her hand on his knee. “Yeah,” she said, “yeah, Bell, he does.”

He turned to face her properly then, and smiled at her. “Then I’m happy for you. I’m really really happy.”

She exhaled with relief, and she felt him laugh when she hurled her arms around him in a hug. 

“I had no idea my approval meant so much.”

“It means the most, you giant dork.” She pulled back, and he was still looking at her with that soft, careful expression. “Your turn?”

Bellamy blinked, apparently startled out of whatever reverie he’d been in. “What?”

“You said you had something to tell me as well?”

“Oh,” he gives a short, rough laugh that makes her glance at him, “it was nothing.”

She frowned. “Are you sure?”

He breathed out heavily, before smiling at her again. “Yeah, not important. I can’t even remember what I was going to say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....sorry. Though in all fairness that final scene was even more traumatic in the movie.
> 
> Anyway, comments/kudos are a healthier and more fun alternative to crack cocaine, so it would be great if y'all could feed me!


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